


Turning to Sin

by DeathlySilent13



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: AU - No Dwarf in the Flask, Evil Ed - Freeform, M/M, Semi-modern twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26877616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathlySilent13/pseuds/DeathlySilent13
Summary: Roy Mustang is hunting for a group of killers who have taken over Amestris's underground and have a habit of killing military personnel that interfere. No one knows who they are, or what they really want, so a semi-legal group has been set loose to hunt them down and eliminate them. So, the ultimate question: What would happen if a certain blonde alchemical genius wasn't so morally-sound?
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Comments: 16
Kudos: 32





	1. Blood and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that I've been toying with for a month or so now, after finding a random picture on the internet that made me start asking all the wrong (right) questions to give rise to a new story. I adore comments, questions, and constructive criticism.  
> Fair waring: I have no idea yet where it's going. Submit questions and ideas with caution.  
> Fair Warning pt. 2: I can't make promises about regular post schedules. Life is cruel, people suck, and my time is fairly non-existent. But if the feedback is positive, I'll keep going as long as I can.  
> Fair warning pt. 3: I have no beta. All mistakes are my own.  
> Standard Disclaimer: I own none of the marvelous FMA universe, and don't think I'd be able to handle it full time. Arakawa is a Goddess. May she have mercy on my casual foray into her brilliance.

Footsteps echo faintly on the pavement, announcing the approach of the trio that Investigations had been waiting for as they process the crime scene. The head of the unit turns, hand running through already unruly raven hair as he lays eyes on the newcomers, the haphazard locks proof that it isn’t the first time he’s shown his stress in such a manner. 

“Another one, Hughes?” asks the man leading the group, his perfectly-groomed hair just as dark but reflecting the evening’s fading light, giving it an ethereal sheen. The suit clings to him in all the right places, perfectly tailored to showcase his physique without announcing the multiple weapons on his person. 

A nod is all Hughes gives him for the moment, having to rally his thoughts to encompass more than the body that called him away from the dinner table. “‘Fraid so, Roy. The calling card is there. That damned red rose.” Eyes drop briefly behind the rectangular glasses, though he doesn’t have to elaborate. He knows this group will know exactly what it means, perhaps even better than he knows himself. All he knows for certain is that another body has turned up, this one leaning back against an alley known to be frequented by the street girls, looking like that’s exactly why he’d been there before his life had been cut short.

The pair following Roy split off, the blonde woman in a pantsuit tailored as perfectly as her bosses suit heads for the body, while the willowy, fair haired man heads for the crowd of potential witnesses rounded up by Investigations personnel. Roy stays with Hughes, the duo overseeing the scene in its entirety, though Roy’s eyes rove almost constantly over the crowds, the cars and the buildings while Maes’s focus remains on the actual scene they’re here to process. Roy is cataloguing potential approaches and departures, discrepancies in the street, anything that looks amiss or sets his instincts off. Hughes is just watching them bag the evidence they see and wishing it was any number of things besides another death. 

Maes Hughes is not nearly as laid-back as most people think, though it often works well in his favor that so many write him off so easily. He heads Amestris’s Investigations unit, and his job has gotten worse since the underground scene underwent a major overhaul. No one knows for sure where the new underground leader came from, or who he is, or even what he looks like. The only name Maes has for this individual is the Desert Father, often simply shortened to ‘Father’. Father’s rule is far more absolute than any previous mafia head, courtesy of the seven people in his employ that seem to be unshakably loyal to him and him alone. They’re called the Vices, for each of them holds a moniker to one of the famous seven Vices of men, and each of them bears a distinctive tattoo, an Orobouros, whose dispersal is controlled exclusively by their Father.

He looks at the man standing with him. Former Colonel and Hero of Ishval Roy Mustang was brought onto the scene to hunt down Father and the Vices after a General’s kid had tried, on a drunken dare, to pay someone to ink the Vice’s Orobouros tattoo on his shoulder. He and the tattoo artist doing it were found dead as they sat, part way through the process. The artist’s hands had been removed, and the drunk kid’s skin where he’d dared to try and get the tattoo was removed with a frightening precision that even the best surgeons in the nation could only dream of. The message was clear. Maes can only assume that the team Roy has now is the same team he had before he retired from active military. They’ve all got that camaraderie that you can’t get anywhere but the hell of war’s underbelly.

He’s known Roy since their Academy days, of course. They got through it together. But they went in different directions. Maes’s cunning intellect had him almost immediately flagged for information and he was drafted fairly young into Investigations, while Roy went on to blow the State Alchemy exam out of the water. He’d been marked as brilliant long before he’d signed his life to military service, and Maes hadn’t yet seen an alchemist that could match him let alone best him. War teaches what classrooms cannot, and the ungodly nightmare of the Ishvalan Civil War honed Roy’s alchemy into an unyielding and deadly point that the man had very nearly forsaken afterwards when the guilt hit. But he needed it, needed the name and the power it gave him to ensure they never levelled another village that way again, never weaponized people so completely.

Maes is shaken out of his musings as the woman approaches, heels clicking together as she stops before them. She doesn’t salute, but Maes wouldn’t be shocked if she had. They’d had stranger things ingrained as habits, despite Roy’s team not being quite so officially military anymore. “It’s one of Record’s people, sir, and Lust’s kill. They’re taking a different trajectory, Records is a new target, and Lust doesn’t handle the military lot at all.” While her face doesn’t change, it’s clear to Roy that she doesn’t like the information she’s reporting. This is a change, and they’re having enough trouble pinning down exactly what these people want as it is. 

No one asks how she knows which Vice made the kill. Each of them has an M.O. that is distinctive to the Vice for which they’re named, and could very well be the reason they were designated so. The rose is the only unifying piece, though not even Mustang’s team knows why the Desert Father includes it, and their apparent sole purpose for functioning these days is to hunt the Vices down. Hughes knows that their true goal is the Desert Father, but they’ll never touch him until every last Vice has been eliminated. That was proven with the last team that had hunted this man down. Maes can still hear the wailing of each of that team’s widows as they were called to Central Command only to be informed that their spouse’s head had been mounted on a pike on the parade grounds, the entire team on the most macabre of displays. It had been a dark day for them all, and even now they don’t have the rest of the bodies. Just the heads, sightless and held perpetually in the agony they had died in before being removed and cremated.

Roy nods at her report, silent for several agonizing seconds. He hates that they know so much, and yet absolutely nothing. He’d love nothing more than to personally wring this Desert Father’s neck for the lives that were taken on his order, but they don’t know a damned thing about him. This is what his team does, and they were the best at it. That he hasn’t made any notable headway rubs him the wrong way. His team, and Hughes, all know that with each successive kill Roy gets surlier. He’s never accepted failure, especially not from himself. “Very good. Follow up with Havoc when he’s done canvassing, and have a full report for me first thing tomorrow morning. I’m going to shake the Tree,” Roy murmurs at last, turning on his heel and heading back to the car just as another of his people arrives with the replacement vehicle to take Hawk and Havoc back to base.

###

The Tree, contrary to what most people assume, is actually a bar and semi-secret brothel. He never refers to it by any recognizable name in public, and coined the moniker for it in a humorous homage to the bar’s proprietor, Madame Christmas. No one on his team (never mind outside of it), save Hawk and Maes, knows that Madame Christmas is actually his foster mother. Nor do they know that the brothel’s girls are some of the most impressive covert intelligence gathering operatives he’s ever seen. He was raised in this bar, both by and alongside most of the girls who work here, relying on them to be his eyes and ears in those corners that he himself would stand out. They’re akin to siblings to him, and as such he’s never availed himself of their prowess, but that never stopped them from filling his head with all things seductive and alluring, teaching him how to blind men and women alike with nothing but a grin and a word.

He immediately bypasses the gleaming oak bar upon arrival, heading for one of the booths in the back. His favorite booth in the far corner, the one that allows a view of the entire room and both exits, is strangely occupied. It’s almost always kept empty for him, the girls always seeming to steer people away from it without anyone realizing, which renders it one of the cleanest seating options in the place as well. He doesn’t allow his steps to falter, however, upon discovering that there’s someone in his booth. The place is empty enough that it shouldn’t have been. A glance at one of the girls passing by earns him a strange look and a twist of the shoulders that doubles as a shrug when they’re in view of the unsuspecting. So they'd tried to lure him aside, and he'd had none of it. Curious. He's never herad of a man who could actually tell the Madame's girls 'no' and that includes several delightfully gay individuals. 

Walking to the booth like he owned it, unofficial though his claim may be, draws the attention of the single most shocking pair of honey-gold eyes he’d ever come across. Only years of playing the military’s politics allows him to keep his face pleasantly neutral as he leans a hip against the edge of the booth, offering the man a saccharine smile. “Good evening,” he murmurs, pitching his voice that low, rumbling octave that so often sets people to swooning.

He’s shocked when there’s absolutely no primal reaction from the man in the booth. There’s no reaction at all, other than a slight tilted of his head, which sends the ponytail of lush, sunshine-kissed hair sliding over one shoulder. The motion draws Roy’s eyes briefly, and he curses himself for his love of long hair as he’s studied rather intently, and not in any sort of manner befitting a bar and brothel. “What’s your business?,” comes the question from this deliciously blonde man, and once again Roy’s thrown off balance. The question sets his internal radar to ticking, that innate instinct that has kept him alive in the worst of situations.

A glass he hadn’t ordered is deposited next to his elbow by one of the girls. Both his peripheral vision and his nose register the liquid within it. Rum and Coke. The drink is, of course, a message from the Madame, that this stranger’s simplicity is an easily mistaken understatement, much like this drink that needs a perfect and easily-botched balance to go down smoothly. Fascinating. 

“No business at all, just out for a little fun,” Roy answers at last, though few would have noticed the way his thoughts wandered. He’s a league above most, after all. He sips the drink, not at all willing to waste good rum, though also to acknowledge the message. Not touching it would have set them on edge, and that just wouldn’t do. He’s nearly convinced himself that it might be ever-so-slightly warranted, but he doesn’t yet have proper cause to upset the Madame’s evening. 

He’s studied again, and a lesser soul might have cowered beneath the weight of the honey gaze. Roy has just a moment to ponder whether not reacting is indeed a telling thing before the doors at the back of the bar fly open. His head swivels, just like everyone else’s, though it’s more out of caution than startled curiosity. He knows those doors lead to the brothel’s rooms upstairs. The figure coming through is appropriately rumpled, the polo untucked from the jeans that are, thankfully, buttoned, as the belt hangs open still. The black biker gloves are an interesting addition, but the man just waves towards the bar, black hair done up in a messy bun, and saunters out into the night. 

“Infantile,” the man beside him murmurs, just as the door swings open and another dark-haired man comes through, this time in a proper suit and carrying himself in a manner that Roy has become accustomed to likening to hired help. No words are spoken as the new arrival steps inside, and simply stands against the wall three paces away from the entrance. The eyepatch over the left eye is interesting, but doesn’t seem to impede the man in any way. Lost in the musings of who this man might be waiting for, Roy very nearly jumps when the blonde stands, gathering a black sport coat that had been draped across the booth’s back. 

As the blonde rises, the eye-patched man standing by the door seems to come to attention, a feat that impresses Roy, as he’d been standing straight-backed to begin with. The sport coat is donned, and the man doesn’t even look back at Roy as he heads for the exit. As he nears the door, the Madame thanks him for his visit, as she does for all patrons. The blonde pauses, glancing at her over his shoulder, and Roy can just make out a sardonic smirk cutting across the fair skin. “Thank you, Madame. May empty stables bring you fortune.” 

Before Roy can process the particular choice of words, the man has stepped through the door opened by the older man that had waited. He rises, moving to the nearest front-facing window just in time to catch the fading taillights of a car, and he looks at his foster mother with suspicious dread. He knows, deep in his gut, that the phrase wasn’t accidental. Knows with that heavy surety in his gut that told him they were in danger seconds before they would have stepped onto a minefield during the war. He’s alive because he listens to this feeling, and he’ll remain that way as long as he lets the inexplicable knowledge guide him. A last glance at the Madame confirms that even she doesn’t actually know who he was, and he nods once before departing. This bizarre turn of events, especially with the sudden change in the Vices targets, does not at all bode well.


	2. Questions and Pigtails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With more questions than answers, Roy's search continues for his elusive targets, and a now new list of mostly unrelated questions has entered the fray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I still have no idea where this is going, but I know what the next two chapters will hold, and I hope you guys will enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Comments are always encouraged!

A knock on his study door is all the warning he’s afforded as Riza strides in, several files in her arm. He groans aloud, but moves his half-empty cup of coffee aside so she can set them on his desk. It may be his third cup, but he’s not nearly awake enough yet for the searching gaze of the woman who’s known him since childhood. She knows who his foster mother is and what she does, after all. He rarely, if ever, leaves the bar empty handed, and while last night was no exception, it wasn’t even close to what he’d expected. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t pry, simply waiting him out. 

He sits back in his chair, rubbing his chin absently with one hand as he mentally replays the evening’s encounter again. He’d spent more of the night than he should have going over every detail, every twitch, every possible little thing he could recall. He wanted to know who that man was with a burning intensity that he hadn’t been prepared for. Finally, he forgoes looking for words, and simply hands her the new pad of paper where he’d documented every single thing he could about the encounter. 

He watches her read in his peripheral vision, and knows the moment she reads the parting quip. There’s no outward change, but the air around her seems to cool by several noticeable degrees, and she looks up at him sharply. “You have no idea who he is?” she asks at last. He fights the urge to shiver; the calmer Riza’s voice, the angrier she is, and her voice couldn’t get any calmer without melting outright. 

He shakes his head. “Not a clue.” Considering the entire team has literally staked their lives on his ability to have more than a measly clue at every turn for the last several years, he deserves the look she gives him, a glare all but shooting from her hazel gaze as she frowns, an expression which utilizes precisely four and a quarter muscles on one side of her jaw and not one fraction more. 

“How has this person, who seems to know both you and the Tree, not been anywhere on our radar before now?” she asks, mostly to herself. It’s a damned good question. The thought that they’d missed something this vital isn’t a promising discovery. Not even the rest of his team knows he’s tied to that bar, so how does this mysterious blonde stranger appear to know so much? What else does he know? The questions, nearly a full page of them, are all scrawled on the first page of the pad still in Riza’s hand, and he doesn’t have answers for a single one of them.

The front door to his semi-secret townhouse and base of operations suddenly bursts open as they ponder the ramifications, and both of them draw their guns (despite no one being able to actually get it open but his team) as a relatively short, bespectacled man comes rushing through with a heavier-set man behind him. Neither of them are fazed by the weapons, well used to carefully honed reactions to excited entries. “Fuery, Breda, what is it?” Roy asks, holstering his sidearm and taking a deep breath. He turns to the table in the middle of the room as they approach, a dining table repurposed and reinforced for planning that they could all gather around, while Fuery unloads an impressive stack of papers that look like transcripts of recordings. 

After a minute of shuffling and muttering, a stack of paper is slid in front of Roy, Riza standing at his side. “This got lost somewhere amidst all the other phone booth calls,” starts a slightly breathless Fuery, “but it’s one of the fourteen booths you have me keeping an eye on, so I finally got around to catching up on the recordings. If I heard it right, there’s gonna be a huge gathering of the influential families in four days and the guy talking said that all seven Vices are supposed to be in attendance, which means that this Father guy will most likely make an appearance. Everything we’ve gathered suggests he only shows when all seven are present.” 

Everyone pauses, taking in the thrill of having every one of their targets in the same room. They don’t have faces for any of them, so it won’t be as simple as going in and quietly eliminating a single target and getting out. Not to mention this is likely being held at a mansion owned by an extremely politically invested person, and any sort of ruckus would reflect very poorly on them all. Roy’s less bothered by this than Riza. If they can just get faces, identification…….the rest will fall into place. This is the opportunity to bridge that crucial and missing first step. Can they come out of this with information? Roy’s grin widens, a dark thing cutting across smooth, pale skin. “We’re too invested to stay away. This could very well get us the answers no one has. Subtlety is key, I doubt we’ll be able to kill any of them that night. But we can certainly figure out who they are. That’s our goal. If we do nothing else on that night, we need to have faces for each and every one of the Vices, and for this Desert Father. Once we know exactly who our targets are, the true hunt can finally begin.” Everyone snaps off a salute, both as habit and as an acknowledgement of the order and plan. 

Fuery and Breda file out, the former to see if he can find any other calls the voice made, and the latter to gather further intel now that they have a location to work on. Riza remains behind, watching the soldier in Roy grin at the latest development. While usually a good, honorable man, there exists within him a darker version, a beast uncovered by war. Or perhaps grown by it. Riza isn’t sure, but she knows it well, for every man in the unit bears the same burden. They’d been through hell, and they’d learned to live alongside the demons. She takes a seat, unrolling one of the dozen blueprints from a previous crime scene and getting back to work.

###

The following night finds Roy heading down familiar streets alone, going over where his team is to make sure he’s got as many bases covered as possible. He’s got Riza going through copies of the reports for the latest crime scene, comparing the evidence of the most recent to previous kills of the same Vice. Falman and Breda are working on blueprints for the building this gala will be held in. Fuery’s stil digging through their phone taps. Havoc went to the theater to ‘accidentally’ run into the head of the Armstrong family, who will be hosting the gala, ensuring they’ll be welcome. Roy grins as he pauses in front of a row of townhomes. He hasn’t been here in awhile, but he’s got a new stuffed dog tucked into his briefcase to hopefully spare him. 

He knocks on the correct door, smiling when it peeks open to reveal a cherubic face topped with two sandy pigtails. The little girl beams up at him, flinging the door all the way open so she can launch herself at Roy’s legs with a happy exclamation of “Uncle Roy!”. Maes Hughes stands a few steps back, chuckling. 

“Hey, Roy. What brings you by?” he asks, much more relaxed here at home than he is at work. 

Roy scoops the little girl up, stepping inside so he can close and lock the door. He gives Maes a look, and that single second is enough to tell the man he’s here on business. However, he digs out the plush dog, which looks shockingly like Riza’s own pet, Hayate, that little Elicia Hughes immediately squeals, snatches the toy from him, and wiggles herself out of his grasp to go show her mother. 

“She’s getting big. Starts preschool soon, doesn’t she?” He asks almost idly. He tries his best to keep up, even though he can’t fathom why Maes would want him to be her godfather. There are so many safer people who could take her if the unthinkable happens. 

“She sure does. Gracia can’t wait.” is the reply, eyes locked on the girls as they coo over the stuffed dog. Maes is the single most devoted husband and father Roy’s ever come across, and it’s as awe-inspiring as it is sickening. Roy lives for it some days, because it reminds him of his reasons for everything he’s done and continues to do.

“You’re not going to go threaten all the little boys in her class the first day, are you?” 

The look Roy gets from Maes is answer enough, and he sighs in sympathy for Gracia. Glancing at the woman in question earns him a gentle smile and a wave down the hallway. She’s a military wife, she knows the drill. He tries to bring something for either her or Elicia every time he brings work here, though, so she knows he appreciates how easily she works around the madness they occasionally end up embroiled in. He doesn’t speak again until they’re settled in the study, and Maes’s face drops into his work glare.

“I might have a small problem,” Roy says softly. He deserves the incredulous glare he gets, so he doesn’t wait for his best friend to ask before telling him about his visit to The Tree and the blonde he’d met there. That damned parting quip about empty stables catches Maes’s attention the same way it caught Riza’s, and Roy worries briefly about the man falling out of his chair.

Maes shifts his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sighs. “This isn’t good, Roy. How could someone who potentially knows so much about you not be anywhere on either your radar or Christmas’s? Between the two of you, that shouldn’t even be possible!” 

He knows. Oh, he knows. After the war, his records were sealed, most redacted. Half the military doesn’t actually know he exists anymore. How can one blonde, who isn’t nearly old enough to know from personal experience, know so damned much? 

“There’s something about him. Even before that phrase, everything in me was telling me to keep track of him. I need to know who he is, I just don’t know why yet. He’s important somewhere.” Roy pauses, taking a breath. Maes pours them both a brandy, and Roy downs his with ease, relishing the way it burned all the way down. His mind wanders again, to the blonde and the man who’d come to fetch him. A chauffeur, certainly, though he felt more like a full-time butler. Made things easier, potentially. Not many of those left, and not nearly enough people who can afford to maintain one anymore. 

Latching onto that thought, he looks up at Maes. “Can you get me a list of full service butlers still working in Central? There can’t be that many anymore, this guy has to show up somewhere,” he says, and gets a nod in return.

“Blonde hair and honey eyes, that’s an unusual combination if I’ve ever heard one. I’m doing some digging into familial connections of a couple of the victims, I’ll poke around a little extra and see what surfaces,” Maes offers, and Roy could have kissed him, Wouldn’t have been the first time, but that was a long damned time ago and Maes is happily married. Roy let it go. Mostly. There’d been that one drunken night, and Gracia hadn’t murdered him in his sleep, but he’s never been the type to challenge fate. 

Maes claps him on the shoulder, and Roy’s surprised to see the man on his feet. “C’mon, join us for dinner. I won’t take no for an answer, you haven’t been over in ages. Elicia almost couldn’t remember your face.” With that, he turns and walks out, and Roy trails behind as the sounds of a little girl’s carefree laughter fills the room. This is what he lives for. This is why he lives in the shadows, chasing demons with stolen faces.


	3. Black and Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy and company attend the gala, seeking answers to the questions they're plagued with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS TIME! Well, sort of. Scene is laid, at least. Never fear, you'll meet an Elric next week (hopefully). Comments are always welcome!

The night of the ball finds the entire team dressed impeccably as they pull up in a limousine outside of Armstrong Manor. He’s got one of Hughes’s people driving it, unwilling to involve a civilian if at all avoidable. Sergeant Denny Brosh is often sensitive, but determined to do right by the country. He’s also armed, so any attempts to commandeer the vehicle will fail, though Roy fervently hopes the Sergeant's evening is a dull one. He steps from the car, flanked by his entire team, and straightens his tie before beginning the long walk up the front steps. Maes himself won't be here tonight. Elicia had come down a few days prior with a fever, and he'd stayed home to take care of her. Or so he said. Roy suspects his night will be spent lamenting his precious angel's pain while Gracia does all the actual caretaking.

“Mustang! Hawkeye! Welcome to our home!” The group is intercepted by none other than Major Alex Louise Armstrong, second child and only son of the current family head. He’d been removed from the battlefront during the war, too kind for his size and unable to stomach the deaths of so many innocents. Roy sometimes envies him. He looks up into the beaming face of the towering man, finding only what he expects, a softness in those blue eyes that couldn't handle senseless death. Whoever is working alongside the underground, it’s not Alex.

“Good evening, Major. It’s been too long. How was your mother’s trip south?” Roy asks. Mrs. Victoria Analise Armstrong had traveled outside of Central without her husband to visit an ailing relative, or so the story goes. He does his best to keep track of major powers, both within the military and without. Most of the Armstrongs fit both categories. While the family’s head may not be active duty, he was a highly decorated soldier in his day, and both Alex and his older sister are currently serving. Being one of the most affluent families besides, Alex doesn't hesitate to inform him that the trip went well and his mother came back quite pleased. He's well used to his family's affairs being public knowledge, they're one of the single most watched families in Amestris, after all.

Once he’d gotten Alex to ramble on about his mother’s trip, Roy half-tunes him out to take in the foyer and sitting room beyond as they enter the mansion. A subtle hand sign, little more than a twitch of two fingers, sends Havoc, Breda, Fuery and Falman scattering. Only Riza remains with him as he makes his excuses to Alex and moves deeper into the house. He would have had her work the room as well, but she’d insisted on staying with him. Considering the unknown man who appears to know too much about him, he can’t really complain about her caution. 

It takes a grand total of twelve minutes for him to decide he’d rather be shot again than be here. Everyone who thinks they’re someone in Central has made an appearance, and all of them want to look at him like he’s something they stepped in walking through the park. He’s not active anymore, at least officially, but he’s still known for his aspirations, and many of the higher ups here still consider him a threat. He revels in the animosity even as he detests having to withstand it with such grace. He’d love nothing more than to unseat most of them, and he knows the ways to do it. 

Respects were paid to Philip and Victoria Armstrong, the head of the family and his wife. The youngest Armstrong child, Catherine Elle, stays alongside her mother despite the increasing crush of people vying for their favor. If Roy’s memory serves, she’s only barely come of age, and looks absolutely delicate next to the shoulder spreads of both Phillip and Alex, despite the former being far less tall than the latter. The only one missing is the eldest daughter, Olivier Mira Armstrong. The fabled Ice Queen of Fort Briggs. None of his men have laid eyes on her yet, and with her cold disposition and ruthless efficiency he can’t help but wonder at the reason. 

“Sir,” Riza whispers, drawing his attention to a man (he thinks) off to one side of the room. She may be watching out for him, but she’s also most likely to catch those who don’t belong among Central Command’s upper echelon. And once again, she’s right. The suit pants are proper, but the white button down is undone almost down to the line of the waistcoat. An untied tie hangs from around his neck, but even that can’t take away from the full head of dreads hanging down from a red band around his head, seeming strangely spiky and longer than most women wear their hair. He’s talking to a man in an untucked red button down shirt, black tie done up but haphazard, and it’s with a start that Roy recognizes this one as the loud-mouth from Madame Christmas’s bar. The one that had been present in the bar at the same time as the blonde man whose name he still doesn’t know. It couldn’t be……

He gives Riza a look, which she passes on to Breda to circulate. Those two are important. He doesn’t know how yet, but he knows it with the kind of surety that he’d stake his life on. He maintains his air of casual flirting as he works his way through the room, heading into a second parlor filled with even more people. His eyes are scanning faces, looking for that shock of blonde hair, or the eye patch. If they’re here, he’s got half the marks identified. Havoc is in this room, speaking to a positively sinful woman with an hourglass figure well worth drooling over. Her black dress has a simple halter neck, showcasing toned arms and shoulders, and a slit comes halfway up her thigh on one side. Long black tresses are held up in a seemingly messy updo with a red tie, and his neurons start firing double time. Black and red. No one else, no one who belongs here, bears that particular combination. That’s important. The Ouroboros tattoos are always red, too. But why? 

Just as he’s about to finish his circuit of the parlor, Riza starts behind him, though he’d likely be the only one to ever notice. She looks down at the squat, bald man that had grabbed her dress. Another all black-and-white suit, with that single splash of red, this time his bowtie. The eyes appear to not have much behind them, but he grins up at her before muttering apologies in a strangely high-pitched voice before wandering off towards a darker corner, where a hulking behemoth of a man sits in a relocated armchair. The large man appears to be either bored or tired, or a strange combination thereof. The bald one moves over to him, and as the large one turns his head to the side to look towards the approaching footsteps, Roy can see the small red ribbon holding the black hair away from his face.

Fuery suddenly appears several paces behind Riza, but before Roy can ask what he’s doing, Olivier herself appears from a side door that doesn’t appear to be accessible by the public at large. She’s just as he remembers, back ramrod straight, wheaten tresses hanging free, and attending a formal gala in her military uniform. Her bearing nearly freezes the very air around her, which explains why Fuery took cover. He almost misses the figures that follow Olivier through the door just before it closes, and Roy has to turn his back to the small procession in order to hide his grin. It’s the older gentleman with the eyepatch. Impeccable suit, red handkerchief in his pocket. There’s a boy with him, dressed identically. While the presence of the child throws him, he’s too much a soldier to be deterred. He meets Riza’s cautious gaze, and lets the hunter’s gleam fill his eyes for a brief moment before schooling his features once more. He’s got the Vices now. All that’s missing is their Desert Father.


	4. Ballgowns and Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy and company begin putting the pieces together....and realize they don't know the first thing about the picture they think they're looking at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting to the good stuff.....as always, comments are welcome!

It takes about another hour and a half for things to gently devolve as the alcohol flows, but Roy finally manages to escape the crowds. Falman had secured a room partway down an empty wing, allowing them to slip in one by one and have privacy. They’d hear anyone approaching, there’s no noise in the rooms surrounding them. He stands before his team, no longer having to pretend, and gives them a soldier’s grin. 

“Men, it looks like we’ve got faces for all seven Vices. I’ve figured them out. Red accents against black suits, there’s only seven people in this entire mansion that have the red and black. Also, I expect that Olivier Armstrong is the one conspiring with them. We saw her coming out of a side room with two of the people I expect are Vices.” He then breaks down each of the individuals he noted, and Fuery is scribbling wildly in his little notebook. It’ll all be in code, so Roy doesn’t pay it any mind. Since his technical genius will be the one to go out and get photographs of all of their targets, he’d rather the details not be forgotten. 

“Sir, you said one of them is a child?” Falman asks. He looks concerned, and with good reason. The death of a child by a soldier’s hand is what started their greatest hell, none of them want to repeat it. Falman’s photographic memory works against him on this, he’ll remember the faces of those he’d felled under orders better than any of them. 

Roy sympathizes, and lets it show. He won’t hide from his men, especially not for something like that. “I’m afraid so. We aren’t eliminating any of them today, so we have time to figure out what to do with this development. I want their faces, and physicalities, Fuery. Breda, Havoc, I want you both gathering as much intel on them as you can tonight. Their quirks, their speech patterns, who they associate with that let them wander among this crowd. I expect most of their clout comes from their Father, who we have yet to identify, though I have my suspicions. He’s my main objective, now. I’d like to get closer to Olivier, as well. Falman, keep working the crowd. Get as much info about possible exit points as you can while you’re making the rounds. I’d like to know we won’t get pinned if this goes sideways.” 

The men all glance at Riza, but the look in her eye keeps them silent. It’s enough for them that she knows whatever it is that Roy knows. She’ll keep their commander from doing something rash, since it’s obvious that he’s now got a suspicion of who their ultimate target may be. They’re all secretly relieved that they aren’t moving on the targets tonight. There are still too many unknown variables about the Vices, and the things it’s said they can do. Those tattoos, as well, are still too much of an anomaly for any of them to be comfortable trying to approach any of the targets.

When no one comes forward with questions, Roy dismisses the team, and they leave one by one, in a different order than they arrived. Roy and Riza are the last to leave, and they skirt the crowded rooms in favor of slipping through like they’d been nosing around the kitchens before heading back to the front sitting room. Fuhrer Raven is here, surrounded by Generals Fox and Grand. Philip Armstrong is nearby, but seems to be engrossed in a different conversation with General Grumman, and Roy takes this to believe that Philip isn’t involved, since Grumman is one of the only allies he has among the higher ranks. Whatever is happening within this mansion, it’s all coming from Olivier. 

He moves through the crowds, Riza heading to the bar as he nears the eldest Armstrong daughter. Between the crush of career men angling for her fortune via her hand in marriage, he slips close without crowding and earns a scowl from her. “A party for the ages, isn’t it, Brigadier General Armstrong?” He asks, not bothering to pour charm into his words. He’d learned some time ago that she’s either immune to it, or hates him too much to buy it. 

As it is, she pins him with a look that would likely make lesser men wet themselves, with one hand resting on the hilt of her saber. “I know you’re not that stupid, Mustang,” she spits, the one gold eye not covered by her wheat-blonde hair as cold as the ice that coats the fort she oversees. She clearly doesn’t understand his angle, which he thinks is fair, considering he doesn’t understand it either, and doesn’t like that she can pin him. It’s obvious, at least to him, but again, he doesn’t mind. He knows well what she thinks of him, more so if she knows he’s hunting the very people he suspects her to be involved with.

He merely gives her a wry grin. “Just fulfilling obligations. It would look out of place otherwise, regardless of how little you had to do with planning this particular gathering.” He’s taking a gamble, he knows, but there’s only one way to get a read on this particular individual, and that’s directly. He needs to know just how mired in this she really is, and considering the brief flicker of shock she allows him to see, he’s right on the money. 

“Whatever you think you know, Mustang, be very sure that it’s worth your life.” She looks like she wants to say more, but a man walks up to her, and Roy has to do a mental double take. At first glance, he looks like the blonde man from the bar, in a sharp black suit with a grey waistcoat, white button down, and black tie, a single red rose pinned to his lapel. But the hair is too short, and the eyes a touch too olive toned. There’s no mistaking that they’re still more honey than hazel, and the hair is the exact same shade as the man from the bar. How absolutely delightful. He can feel Riza’s gaze on him, and it’s only years of playing this game that his face continues to give nothing away. 

He gives the new arrival a short bow. Anyone who could make the indomitable Olivier Armstrong hold her quips is well worth it, and he’s not stupid enough to pretend he’s not very well aware of that fact. “Good evening. I don’t believe we’ve met,” Roy says suavely, holding out a hand. There are societal protocols, and by invoking this one he can gauge a couple things with ease. There is a very good reason people still give his name due pause, after all. 

“Alphonse. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Mustang,” the man says, perfectly pitched and entirely fabricated. Roy knows the tone well, he uses it every day. Any thoughts he might have on the matter vanish when Alphonse takes his hand in a firm grip. The handshake is brief, acceptable, but the sheer depth of latent power that courses just under this man’s skin very nearly makes Roy grimace. He knows he is a brilliant alchemist, but he also knows that, compared to the man standing before him, he is grossly outclassed. 

As the words catch up to him, he offers a small smile, biting back the smug tint that knowing what he does would otherwise have put into his face. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, then, sir.” He doesn’t ask the man to elaborate, instead waiting to see what would come of his observation. It always says a great deal about a person to see how they respond when presented with such a closed comment. 

The blonde simply gives him a small, knowing grin. “Understandable. I imagine most here don’t know Fuhrer Raven’s friends. He had a great deal to say about you, Mr. Mustang. I wonder how much of it is true.” The look Alphonse gives him is searching, contemplative. Roy isn’t entirely sure exactly what the man’s looking for, but it’s clear he’s looking. Could he play along with someone he suspects is involved with the criminal underground? Could he act the part well enough to get answers, to get _them_? 

“I would love to help set the record…...ah, less ambiguous,” he replies, intentionally not talking about setting records straight. Politicians possessed no such things, and those who worked with them often couldn’t afford them. If it helped to get the man to start talking, so much the better. Even if it was only to know the kinds of things that had been said, it would still tell him a great deal. 

Alphonse studies him for a moment, head tilted just a touch. The pause has even Olivier looking down at the blonde man, who seems to come to some sort of decision and meets the woman’s gaze with an ease that chills Roy. “May we borrow a room, Ms. Armstrong?” he asks her, though his voice suggests that asking is purely formality. This is a man who owns any room he stands in, and knows exactly how many people within that room he owns as well. 

At Olivier’s shockingly soft, differential “Of course,” Alphonse turns, beckoning Roy silently as he heads off to a different wing than he and his team had met in. The blonde clearly knows exactly where he’s going, and it takes only minutes for them to be in a study of some sort, a fire crackling happily in the grate. This room clearly intended to be used, and Roy wonders if he isn’t the first to be brought back. A thought for another time, when he can collaborate with his men and figure out who among the crowd vanished alone.


	5. Offers and Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy sits down with the elusive Alphonse, and gets a glimpse of far more than he'd bargained for.

He knows well he’s going to hear it from Riza for not finding a way to get her into this little meet, or for going off on his own at all. Nothing to be done, considering he doesn’t yet know nearly enough to safely start making demands. He settles into one of the armchairs by the fire, Alphonse taking the other with ease. There’s no tension to the man, which makes Roy wonder if he’s genuinely that confident or if he’s simply so much better at hiding it. 

Before he can form a question that doesn’t sound like he’s quite as clueless as he is, the door opens again, and the boy he’d seen earlier coming out of the side door enters, balancing a try with a teapot, two cups, and sugar and milk bowls. If Roy’s not mistaken, it’s vintage Xingese china. The boy sets the tray on the small table between them, automatically making Alphonse’s cup and offering it to him before pouring Roy’s and handing it over. “Would you prefer to have the charming Ms. Hawkeye present, Mr. Mustang?” Alphonse asks him suddenly, grinning as he takes the first careful sip of the warm liquid. 

Roy’s shocked, and he doesn’t hide it this time. He glances down at the boy in the impeccable suit, the red handkerchief a stark contrast to the otherwise sheer lack of color. It seems the kid isn’t going anywhere, hands clasped behind him in the same sort of poise the older gentleman had carried himself with. “If you would be so kind, Alphonse. I greatly appreciate it.” It either bodes well, or gravely ill for them that he’d allow Riza to be here. That he knows all of their names is something to be handled later. If they know Olivier well enough to waltz through the mansion like they own it, there’s no telling what else they know. 

Alphonse nods, sending the boy off to collect Riza. Roy sits in with his tea, he’d be shocked if she wasn’t waiting in the hall somewhere. He barely has time to smile to himself at the thought before the boy returns, Riza in tow. She’s not happy, and he can practically taste it pouring off of her. The boy moves to the far wall, though clearly remaining more or less at Alphonse’s side, so Riza takes up a similar position beside and behind Roy. He grins, which earns him one from Alphonse in return. 

“I won’t bother trying to play games with you, Mr. Mustang. I know who you are, and what your orders are. I also know they are unofficially signed by one General Grumman, not by the Fuhrer himself, though I’ve asked Raven not to interfere.” Ever thankful that he’s never been prone to spitting liquids across a room, Roy takes his time swallowing and resting his cup on his knee to gather his thoughts. He can only pray Riza won’t decide to shoot anyone until they’ve got a far better handle on things.

“I wondered how high up you could reach. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, a complete underground overhaul would take massive support from the military, after all,” Roy responds, favoring that over the multitude of questions swirling around in his head. His comment earns an approving nod from Alphonse, though he’s not sure if that’s a victory he should admit to.

“Yes, Brother did have his work cut out for him. Thankfully, Raven had been involved back when he was a mere Colonel. We’ve nudged him where we’ve needed him. His greed works well in our favor. You, however, are not so easily bought. So what is it that truly fuels you, Flame?” Alphonse’s voice had grown steadily more confident as he’d spoken, but it seems that his final question is genuine, if blatantly fishing. Roy’s busy cataloguing the information he’s just been handed, though he knows Riza’s unfailing memory is keeping painstaking notes as well. 

Instead of firing off a flitting and flirty answer, Roy merely shrugs, testing the waters with a much more cavalier response, true though it remains. “Justice. Peace. The usual, I suppose. My hands are already sullied, but if I can use that to my advantage to save others from knowing what a battlefield looks like, I will gladly stare down the dark.” He means his words, of course, and deeply. It’s been his calling since the civil war in Ishval, and it’s why his team stays with him. They have a great deal to make up for, and a great deal to do so no one else has to bear the dead, sullen look they’d seen in each other's eyes during that seven year nightmare. 

Alphonse studies him, his smirk sardonic. “How disappointing. I took you for a smarter man. Killing you would be such a waste.” Roy and Riza both start at this, there’s no denying it, though Roy does raise his hand to stop Riza from pulling her side arm. He is not looking at Alphonse, however, but at the boy, whose eyes have bled red and seems to have nearly melted into the shadows against the wall where he stands. Shadows which seem to be creeping without any change in the light.

“Stand down, Hawkeye,” he commands, and turns to meet her near-murderous glare. Her face may not change, but they’ve known each other since childhood, and being told not to respond to a threat, especially a direct threat against him, is enough to make her truly angry. “I’m curious to know why they bothered approaching me at all, since my convictions are far less a secret than my orders.” Blinking, she releases her weapon, returning to stand at parade rest with clear reluctance. A subtle message, but a message nonetheless. She won’t sit idly by if it happens again. 

Alphonse chuckles, and even the boy behind him grins. “Touching, but useless. Would you like to taste true power, Mr. Mustang?” He doesn’t elaborate, not that Roy expected him to, and the blonde settles in to wait while the man puzzles out an answer. It’s enough to warrant, considering Alphonse is no longer hiding his amusement, which is disturbing enough on its own. 

Roy does indeed sit, and ponder. The thing with the boy just now shook him. If that was the capacity of a Vice, they may very well be in over their heads. He knows his team is tired, this was supposed to be the final job, though not even Grumman is aware of that. Roy and Riza will likely continue on, but Breda, Fuery and Falman have families, and Havoc’s been itching to settle down. They’re tired, there’s no doubt. They’ve followed him repeatedly into hell, after all. So why does clinging to his values denounce his intelligence? That throws him, and he lifts his gaze to study the blonde, who must admittedly be at least a decade his junior. And he’s not offering just power, but _true_ power. There’s a difference there. He just hasn’t figured out what.

Finally, he sets his now empty cup aside, shocked when the boy moves forward to fill it again, this time tailoring the cup the way Roy had prepared it earlier. The kid doesn’t look nearly old enough to be such an old hat at the butler’s vocation. “I couldn’t give you a proper answer without knowing what it would cost me,” he finally replies, though he’s by no means done puzzling through what he’s learned so far. This is not the Desert Father, but he has all but confirmed that this brother of his definitely is, and that is valuable. Honey eyed boys, eh? And one with a name unusual enough to stand out. He’ll find them. 

Alphonse nods, like he’s said something worth praising. “Indeed. You would work for us. That goes without saying, though I’ve found it easier to say it anyway. You’ll obviously be called upon occasionally to perform jobs for us. You won’t be eliminating complications, that is handled. But you work within the military while standing outside of it, and that is a very fortuitous place to be. So long as you do not interfere with us, we don’t really have any desire to cage you or your team. They are valuable, after all. Both those here with you tonight, and those with a feverish child at home.” 

Riza growls, and even Roy stiffens at those words. Maes hasn’t been so deeply involved, and Roy has worked hard to keep it that way. Maes has a daughter who needs him at home, not running across the county like a vigilante. He manages not to spit something he’d almost certainly regret, though the knowing smirk on Alphonse’s face means the comment is more warning than anything. Damn it all. 

“If I may, I would like the time to discuss this with my team. Since such an offer would, obviously, end my current contract, there are a few things I’d like to work out.” 

“Very good, Mr. Mustang. We will be in touch soon.” Alphonse stands, the boy with him gathering the tea set with an almost inhuman efficiency the second that teacup hits the tray, and follows the blonde out the door. It’s not missed by anyone that Alphonse never specified how he’ll know when to be in touch, or how to find them.


	6. Discussions and Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team meets to figure out what to make of Roy's discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a day late, so sorry! Life and work haven't been kind, but here's the latest! It's a little short, but necessary to set up the next chapter. Comments are always welcome.

Roy doesn’t make any effort to rise after the pair clears the room, and once they’re properly alone, Riza pins him with a withering look. He lifts his hand, mentally counting steps. Without knowing exactly what he’d seen, he wants no unnecessary risks. When he’d estimated Alphonse and the boy to be back among the crowds, he turns to look at her. 

“Did you see that boy, when you went for your gun?” he asks, staving off her tirade. 

She merely shakes his head, but that he’d bothered to ask means she won’t discount it easily. She knows better. 

“There’s something to these Vices that we haven’t accounted for. His physical form seemed to waver, he nearly melted into the shadows, Riza. And they moved independently of any light source.” He doesn’t mention the glowing red eyes. Not yet. He recognizes the shade, but he wants to be absolutely sure before he says anything. One thing remains abundantly clear, however: they’re most assuredly in over their heads. 

He stands, straightening his suit, and with a last long look at her, strides from the room. As they head down the hall, he gives her the silent order to separate and get word out to extract. They don’t need to linger, not anymore. He doesn’t return to the parlor, skirting the well-lit areas and heading mostly west, where he knows a back exit is. 

He doesn’t have long to wait, Falman appearing with his usual silent efficiency to lead everyone to the exit they’d designated earlier. Everyone except Fuery stands with him now. The questioning looks between the men, and the suspicious glances towards Hawkeye are ignored as the limo circles the building. He doesn’t need to give any kind of hand signal, they’re piling into the vehicle before it even stops moving, and within 60 seconds, they're on the road and nearing the boundary of the Armstrong property. 

He gives the men a look, refusing to discuss what he’d seen while Sergeant Brosh is in earshot. The man is given an address to a row of condos next to a storage facility, which is where they stashed the car to avoid anyone having the townhouse’s address. The drive is tense, though it doesn’t stop jackets from coming off and ties loosened. 

Twenty minutes later, they’re in their own cars, and ten after that everyone is settled in Roy’s study. The townhouse is locked down, and Fuery has just returned confirming there are no listening devices anywhere and the phone lines are clear. 

Roy steeples his hands, gathering his racing thoughts. “Men, we’re in over our heads. Whatever we think we know is grossly misaligned.” Naturally, this isn’t taken well, and he allows the outcries for a moment while he retrieves a book from a recessed corner bathed in shadow. When he returns, he opens it and lays it flat for everyone to see. Nestled within the cavity cut out of the pages is a gleaming red stone, tetragonal and appearing deceptively harmless.

“Sir?” asks Breda. He knows what this is, they all do. Despite no one but Roy having ever used one, they’re all intimately familiar with this little stone, what it can do, and what created it. Roy made sure of it. If these people were going to follow him, to remain loyal, they needed to know the worst of him as well as the best of him. Nothing less would have withstood the tests they’d been subjected to over the years. In order to have people whose faith is unshakable, he had to give them reason to put their faith in him at all. 

Roy tells them everything, from encountering Olivier after the team’s initial meet to everything he can remember about Alphonse and the boy with him, to the things said and what he’d seen. Including the subtle warning about Hughes and Raven being in their pocket. This time, he includes those glowing red eyes. He holds nothing back, because doing so will almost certainly cost his team their lives. And Maes, and possibly Gracia and Elicia. He won’t allow it. There’s far too much at stake. 

Silence reigns once he’s finished some 30 minutes later, and he sits back in his chair to wait. It won’t take long, but they still need a chance to process everything he’d just unloaded on them. 

“Well damn. We can’t leave. Not with this hanging over our heads,” Breda finally mumbles, setting everyone to nodding again. 

“Maybe we still can. Sort of,” Falman offers, and Roy gestures at him to continue. “I mean, it sounds like they want you, Sir. It’s not known that we’re looking at getting out. Think they’d negotiate? Have the rest of us on, like, a reservist status? We’re not walking away if you’re determined to see this through, but if they don’t want us on a tight leash there may be room to have all sides.” 

“Man, you wanna expose our families to something like that?” Breda challenges, though there’s no sign that he’s genuinely bristling. Banter and challenge keep their wits sharp. If they can verbally and intellectually spar with each other, most others don’t stand a chance. 

“They know about Hughes,” Falman counters, and Roy cringes. He hates that Maes was dragged into this. “They know our names. If they don’t already have our families under some kind of watch I’ll eat my holster.” 

Fuery sighs softly, fiddling with a spare wire he’d brought back with him when he’d checked the lines. “Do we really have a choice? If they’ve got Fuhrer Raven in their pocket, never mind someone cold and unshakable like Brigadier General Armstrong…..plus the spooky powers thing. If all the Vices have something like that, there’s no way we’re coming out of this on top unless we play their game to learn the rules.” 

Once again, this is met with silence. However, this silence is very much loaded, a veritable powder keg. He’s right, of course. They all know it. It doesn’t make the truth any easier to swallow, however. He’ll do everything he can to ease this for them, for their families. A casual glance at Hawkeye assures him she’s making the same mental promise. She’ll stay with him forever, but the rest of them have people waiting for them. 

“Alright, men. Take a few days, weigh it, speak to your families if you wish. Generics only, of course. Keep the details under tight wraps. Get me definitive answers by week’s end so I can barter with Alphonse.” He’ll need sureties before he approaches them again, but that doesn’t mean he has to rush it. This is a massive decision for all of them. They’re dismissed not long afterward, and he takes his time putting the book and the hidden stone away once more. He keeps the reminder, knowing what went into its creation, and he asked each of his men to swear to make sure he never falls prey to it again. While doubtful, he knows all too well the weakness of man.


	7. Decisions and Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made, it's time to negotiate with the very people Roy was hired to eliminate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Holidays are coming up, so I don't know if I'll get next week's chapter up around all the family stuff. Thanksgiving is major family time, so I may not be home to post. I was going to split this into a smaller chunk, but you guys deserve a slightly longer chapter since there may be a longer wait for the next chapter. As always, comments are welcome! Stay safe!

The end of the week brings torrential rain with it, and sours Roy’s mood rather spectacularly. He’s always hated the rain, partially because it smothers his alchemy. He would never admit aloud that he’s useless in the rain, but he doesn’t have to. His team will do it for him. Falman called him last night, and was the last call he needed. He now has formal declarations from every last member of his team to proceed with trying to negotiate with this blond boy who knows too much. He has no idea how to contact them, or how to leave a message that he’s ready to discuss the offer.

Just as Roy begins pondering whether he wants to get soaked or try and wait it out, the door to the coffeehouse he’d taken refuge in opens, and a man walks in with waist-length dreads, black jeans slung low on narrow hips, a wide studded belt, and tight black tank top emblazoned with some sort of skull. The inch or so of fair skin draws attention, and the lack of color means it takes Roy a moment to identify why the man seems familiar. He figures it out just as the man flops into the seat next to Roy, giving him a sneer. This is one of the Vices from Armstrong Manor. 

“Yo. Hear you got an answer for us, soldier-boy,” the man asks, seeming to not care about being overheard, or partially drenched. Roy takes care to keep himself in check, poised but casual. It wouldn’t do to give anything away, not when he’s so far out of the loop. Considering he’s had an answer less than 24 hours, there’s a great deal he has to keep off of his face.

He sips his latte before answering, not sure how best to approach this particular individual. Caution is paramount. “I would like to clarify a couple things, but yes, I do believe I have an answer. May I speak to Alphonse at his convenience?” 

The man next to him cackles, though it cuts off a touch suddenly when Roy doesn’t react. Unsure of just how much of it is a game and how much of it is personality, Roy merely waits. The man shifts then, sitting more upright and leaning forward to pin Roy with a sneer. “What for? You’re either in or you’re prey.”

The door jingles while the man speaks, and a sultry woman’s voice interrupts before Roy can say anything in response. 

“Now, now, Envy, leave Mr. Mustang alone. If he wishes to speak to Alphonse, then we take him to Alphonse.” 

Roy looks up, and freezes for several seconds. It’s the woman Havoc had been speaking to at the Gala. Another Vice. This one, however, is done up in a lavender halter top that covers her breastbone but leaves her shoulders and likely most of her back bare, and a tight denim skirt hugging mouthwatering hips. Lush ebony hair is pulled up in a high ponytail. Bare midriff and grey ankle boots finish the ensemble and ensure that the entire coffeehouse is looking at her. A dripping umbrella hangs loosely in her hand, which explains why she’s still dry.

The man scoffs, unperturbed by the woman’s arrival. “Come on, Lust, live a little,” He nearly whines, and the names have Roy’s radar pinging. This confirms beyond anything else not only what they are, but which they are. Envy, the man with a penchant for killing with explosives, and Lust, the woman who severs mens' femoral arteries. 

“I’m not the one who needs to be mindful of disappointing Father again, Envy,” chides the woman coldly, and Envy nearly wilts into the chair, paling and swallowing back his very nature, it appears. Roy takes all of this in while seemingly focused on finishing his latte. It would seem that disappointment is not taken well, and he wonders why the response is so visceral.

A sigh that one might mistake for a groan leaves the drenched man, and he stands, stretching out before beckoning to Roy. “Come on, then. We’ll take you to Alphonse.” he mutters, much of the wind taken out of his sails. Whatever disappointing their Father means, it’s not pleasant. Roy can only assume they’re speaking of the Desert Father they answer to. Alphonse’s brother. Roy has so many questions, but no way to ask them without being shut down. 

“Of course. Pardon me for just a moment,” he replies, standing and taking his empty cup to the counter and leaving it to be picked up. He abhors leaving things lying haphazardly around such places, much preferring to avoid complicating the workers’ lives if a simple action can alleviate it. That it makes him just memorable enough to secure better service is certainly a bonus, though the driving reason remains his upbringing in a bar and his foster mother’s glare when he left things lying about. 

Envy looks like he wants to say something, but Lust just gives him a tiny grin and turns for the door. Roy opts to follow her - she seems to be the more sensible of the pair - and if Envy’s already in trouble, he would do well to mind his step with the man until he understands this Father of theirs better. 

##

The car ride is short, and Roy tries very hard not to be unsettled at being stuck in a car with two renown murderers. He suspects someone has eyes on him, though he’s not completely positive whether it’s Havoc or Falman. Hawkeye wouldn’t let him wander without someone watching him now that it’s been made clear that they want him. They’re here somewhere, and he’s long used to trusting his team. He’s not alone, and that’s what matters. Even if they drop him, they won’t get away with it. 

He glances up at the building they arrive at, surprised to find a modest house fairly centrally located. Lust and Envy don’t hesitate, walking up the path and through the front door. Roy follows more sedately, slipping his shoes off and leaving them next to Lust’s boots. He trails after them into what he would guess was originally a sitting room or second living area. Built-in bookcases line every wall. It’s a magnificent study, and he’s not ashamed to admit it. Sitting behind a gleaming teak desk is the man he’s here to see. Alphonse looks up, his face bearing a deep and dark displeasure at the interruption until he spots Roy. 

“Good day, Alphonse. Mr. Mustang has requested a moment of your time for clarification regarding his answer to your proposal,” Lust says, Envy hanging back. This isn’t their Father, but they still defer to him with a touch of fear. Roy isn’t sure what to make of this, exactly, but he’s definitely intrigued. Perhaps a bit morbidly, but there it is. He’d put in a request, and since he’s clearly not expected at this time, he wonders why they went through the trouble to bring him in. Do they fear bringing unsavory news back that much? 

Alphonse nods, waving them off, and neither of them lingers as they vacate the room. Roy waits until the door has closed to take a seat, deciding not to hide the fact that he’s wary of these Vices, these assassins of the infamous Desert Father. 

“I do hope I’m not interrupting,” Roy says softly, manners winning out. He was a gentleman before he was a soldier, after all, and has a hunch that the former will get him farther than the latter with this man. Perhaps less so with the elusive brother. 

“Not at all. I would have met you myself, but we had a couple things come up. Believe me, I wouldn’t have sent Envy if Wrath or Pride had been available,” he says, strangely conversationally. Roy doesn’t immediately reply, not knowing exactly which of the remaining he’d seen the man speaks of and wary of insulting. 

“It’s no bother. If we weren’t in the middle of a business arrangement, I might have let him stew a bit,” he ventures, earning a laugh from the blond. He’s getting a handle on this one, and as collected as he is, Roy is beginning to fear what that means for the brother kept out of the spotlight. 

Alphonse sits back, still grinning, and gestures vaguely at the desk between them. “You had questions for me?” 

Roy nods, lacing his fingers together in his lap. “Yes. This mission we’d accepted, we had no idea what it would entail, originally. We assumed it would be like those before, and most of my team had tagged this as our final one together. I would like to honor that.” He pauses here, gauging the response of the man before him. Considering Alphonse is no longer smiling, he knows he needs to offer something. His men had most assuredly called this one. “I have spoken to my men, and they understand that, given the nature of what has already been revealed, they won’t just be walking away free and clear. They’ve agreed, if it meets with your approval, to stay on call, sort of a reserve team, if you will. Hawkeye and I will enter your employ full-time, though I would graciously request to keep her with me and not have us divided. We are far more productive as a unit.” 

Alphonse studies him for several heartbeats. He can count them with ease, since each beat of his heart feels like a Briggs tank against his ribcage. Finally, just as Roy begins to get really nervous, Alphonse nods. “You’ve thought this through, and well. My compliments. I accept, and I will take your proposal to Brother, though I don’t see him having an issue. We will not need them all except under the most bizarre of circumstances, if you and Ms. Hawkeye are as good as we've heard.” 

Alphonse stands, and out of habit more than anything, Roy does as well, following him out of the room. “If you’re hungry, you can head through that door there, Lust will make you anything you wish. I need to go speak to Brother about several other matters as well as your proposal. If you would, kindly call Ms. Hawkeye here. Barring any opposition from Brother, you two will meet the rest this evening. I won’t introduce the rest of your team to ours at this time. We will make introductions as they become necessary. If they don’t know more than they do today, we don’t have to post people around their homes. Locked doors are not an invitation to pry, and I would advise you stay clear of the basement for the time being. Otherwise, make yourself comfortable. I should return in an hour.”


	8. Meetings and Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy and Riza meet the homunculi, and get a lot more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy guys. This will be the only update of the month, probably. I'm sorry. My great-uncle passed away the day after Thanksgiving, and the family's been....well, we're dealing. My aunt isn't doing so well. So between that and the holidays, my writing has pretty much gone into the toilet. I hope you all stay safe out there. <3

Once his phone call to Hawkeye is made, Roy takes up a spot in the same study he’d met Alphonse in, settling in an armchair near the unlit fireplace and immersing himself in one of the volumes he’d happened across. It’s nothing he’s read before, and there are certainly far worse things he could be caught doing than educating himself. The study has a vast collection, and he only recognizes perhaps a third of the titles. The scientist, the alchemist, in him took notice. 

He looks up as the door swings open some time later, Hawkeye being brought in by none other than Envy. There’s less of the smug attitude Roy had seen at the coffeehouse, though he’s not at all sorry for it. Hawkeye is historically far less forgiving of such things. He beams up at the pair, gesturing to the seat next to him. “Ah, Hawkeye. You got here quicker than I expected. My apologies, Envy, I would have alerted you had I known.” 

He’s not shocked by the huff and eyeroll he receives as Envy waves him off and swings his way back out the door. Once it’s closed, Hawkeye sits and gives him a look to start talking, and fast. 

He sets the book aside, using the extra moments to hopefully let anyone near the door move far enough away, not that he’d say everything aloud. “Alphonse accepted the proposal. Barring any objections from his brother, you and I will be introduced to the rest and the others will be kept out of it for now. The less they know, the less they need to be monitored.” He doesn’t say anything further, but given the flash in her eyes, he doesn’t have to. She understands the unspoken threat, and has no wish to put anyone at risk if it can be avoided. 

His voice drops, and while he’s considered leaving it at that for now, these people know his mission, know him. There’s really no point in playing stupid, which is far easier than the line he’s left walking. “These Vices defer to Alphonse. I don’t know exactly how closely tied he is to the brother, who I assume is the Father we were originally sent after. But failure is not taken kindly, and there is a healthy fear in them. As long as we retain Alphonse’s favor, I suspect we won’t have to worry so heavily about the Vices turning on us. I haven’t met the brother yet, though I wonder why he’s kept out of the spotlight. Alphonse is memorable, those honeyed eyes are unique, so looks aren’t a factor-”

They start as the door opens, and Roy finds himself staring at the blond from the bar. The white robes and a cloak lined in purple and gold draped upon his frame are foreign to him. The long hair falls around his shoulders like sun-bathed silk, and those eyes of pure molten gold pin him with a look far sharper than he’d ever been subjected to before. There’s no mercy in those eyes, no trace of soft and gentle. Those are not the eyes of a boy, no matter that the rest of the face barely looks of age. 

“They told me you weren’t half as stupid as the common rabble,” the new arrival says, and Roy has to fight unusually hard to keep from shrinking back into his chair. Whoever this man is, there’s something in his carriage that most of Roy’s instincts want nothing more than to flee from. Most.

“Come.” 

The single word is spoken as the man pivots, and he’s several steps from the door by the time Roy and Hawkeye can gain their feet. Considering the fear the Vices have, Roy doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he’s nearly scampering to catch up. This is not a man that is ignored, and in a far more literal and powerful sense than Philip Armstrong. 

They follow him past the kitchen, into a primary living room. He approaches the fireplace, which opens suddenly, revealing a concrete staircase. No lever is pulled, and the hairs on the back of Roy’s neck stand up. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the room tasted like alchemy, but there’d been no activation of a circle. The blond, who still hadn’t introduced himself, proceeds down the staircase, and Roy can only assume he and Hawkeye are meant to follow. She hesitates before crossing through the fireplace, and he glances back to find her staring at the floor. His eyes follow, seeing the slick, sticky trail of blood, and he pauses, before giving her a sympathetic look and continuing on. They can’t afford to hesitate now, not when they’re so close to the answers no one could touch. 

##

The stairs end at a doorway. Roy steps through, managing to get far enough to allow Hawkeye to enter behind him before he freezes. The stone had been cleared, carved into smooth walls and arches. Before him lies a velvet carpet of bright red, the color of oxygenated blood, lined with large, bronze floor candelabras. An ornate bronze throne draped in more red sits on a raised dais, padded and lush. On the wall behind it, nearly a story high, is a large mural that looks suspiciously like a guide to a transmutation circle, five points identified by gleaming rubies surrounding a twin-headed dragon and crowned by a lion swallowing the sun. The blond moves confidently, draping himself sideways upon this throne, and studies Roy and Hawkeye silently. 

It takes Roy longer than he would ever willingly admit to realize that the throne is framed by six of the seven Vices. Each Vice stands on a stair leading up to the throne, three to a side. The only one standing upon the top of the dais with the blond is Alphonse. The sight makes his knees weak, and the waves of barely contained aggression rolling off of Hawkeye behind him do not help in the slightest. He should be angry, just as she is, to be faced with six of the seven murderers they’re being paid to eliminate. Instead, he wants to approach that throne even as the sight of the Vices, and the knowledge of what they’re capable of, keep him in his place.

“Welcome to our home, Mr. Mustang, Ms. Hawkeye,” Alphonse says, his voice somehow carrying with authority despite how softly it seems. “You know me. This is my older brother, Edward. He is the one who created our partners here, our Vices. On my right, in order, is Wrath, Pride, and Sloth. On my left is Lust, Gluttony, and Greed. Envy, whom you both have met already, is currently unavailable. He has displeased Brother again. Forgive the mess he made on the stairs, we will have it cleaned shortly.” 

Roy studies each individual as they are named. Wrath, the man with the eyepatch. Pride, the boy who can command the shadows. Sloth, the large, hulking behemoth of a man from the gala. Lust, the sultry woman they’d met twice already. Gluttony, the short, squat man who’d grabbed Hawkeye at Armstrong Manor. And Greed, the rambunctious man from the Tree.

He’s busy absorbing everything he’d been shown, and regrettably misses the step forward that Hawkeye takes, putting her level with him instead of just behind him.

“That amount of blood suggests he won’t survive. Does this mean we will not be working with him?” she asks. Her voice is sharper than he might have liked, but before he can give her any kind of signal to dial it back, the blond, Edward the Desert Father, smirks. 

“He’ll live. Would you like to know how?” Edward asks, earning a strangely exasperated look from Alphonse, who says nothing. Even he defers to this one, then. Roy has tasted Alphonse’s latent power, and was floored. Roy can barely fathom what Edward must be capable of, then, if even someone like Alphonse refuses to challenge him.

Hawkeye hesitates a moment, weighing the tone more than the words, and when Roy doesn’t bother to interfere with his smooth vernacular to de-escalate, nods once. 

“Sloth. Greed.” 

The names are enough, it seems. Greed sighs, removing his polo and standing bare chested in the middle of the floor, directly in front of both the throne and Roy, facing the latter. Sloth ambles up behind him, one enormous hand coming down and wrapping around Greed’s head. Before either of them can say a word, Sloth squeezes, and Greed’s head explodes.


	9. Shock and Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy and Riza get a much better idea of just what they're working with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I haven't forgotten! I probably won't be posting weekly anymore, the year's definitely kicked off in both work and drama, but rest assured, I'm still here and still working on this.

They both jump and gasp. There’s no denying it. Roy’s paused mid-motion, hand outstretched as though he could save the man. He watches in horror as Wrath produces a handkerchief, wetted by a small bottle Pride pulls from somewhere, and Sloth begins cleaning his hand. No one else has moved, and none of them appear to even be fazed by the death of one of their own.

Hawkeye grabs his sleeve suddenly, and the uncharacteristic move nearly has him jumping out of his skin. He looks back at her, but her eyes are locked on Greed’s body, and he turns back in time to watch bone, sinew and flesh knitting over the space where the man’s head should be. The air crackles, akin to alchemy, but the sparks are red, not the usual blue, plus there’s no activation of a circle. Within a minute and a half, Greed is back on his feet, completely healed. Sloth has resumed his place on the stairs.

Roy doesn’t care that he’s openly staring, slack-jawed. He’s nearly beyond coherency at this point. As an alchemist, he knows how impossible the feat he’s just witnessed far better than most ever will. He doesn’t understand, though he suspects. The sparks were the same red as Pride’s eyes that day in Armstrong Manor…..the same red as the seemingly harmless little stone hidden away in his own library that haunts him every single day. 

Hawkeye gathers herself first, if only barely, and looks up at Edward once more. “There are cleaner ways to behead a man,” she comments, which only makes Edward grin. Definitely a more volatile personality, then.

“Wouldn’t have the same effect, though, would it?” Edward asks almost idly.

Hawkeye merely nods after a moment’s thought. Roy would have found a way to argue, perhaps over semantics, or something more alchemically centered, considering. She might understand most of his arguments herself, considering the caliber of alchemist her father was, but she’s by far the more practical of the two of them. 

“You’ve got them to handle the wetwork, so what are we really here for?” she asks next, and Roy does actually start this time. He’s tempted to intervene, but Edward seems to enjoy speaking with her, the almost brash bluntness likely preferable to this man. Roy and Alphonse can converse later. 

Edward’s hearty laugh at her question throws him. And he’s not the only one. The Vices seem to be as shocked as he is, and only Alphonse doesn’t stare openly at the laughing man with barely disguised fear. It’s not just the laughter itself that gets to Roy, though. The joy transforms the man’s face into something Roy would call bordering on heavenly, were he so inclined as to believe in religion. Alphonse merely studies Hawkeye, and Roy likes the look on the younger brother’s face far less. 

“You’re here so we have you when we need you,” comes the reply, and Hawkeye scowls. Roy watches Edward closely, but there’s no souring of his mood yet, so he continues to hold his silence. He’d be more concerned if Alphonse was making an effort to steer the conversation, but he seems to have taken up the same idea Roy had, though his reasons may be slightly different. He doesn’t know nearly enough of the older brother’s temperament to be sure yet, and is mildly distracted by how much he cares to learn of the elder blond. 

Hawkeye goes to reply, pausing when a hulking green mass drags itself from within the shadows to the side, three of the eight legs all but shattered and a gaping hole in its side. As they watch, the eight-legged monstrosity with a hundred faces lining it’s neck and shoulders condenses into the form of Envy, red lightning crackling as the last of the damage is healed. Whatever he had been wearing before seems to have vanished, leaving only a strange black halter crop top and skin-tight black shorts covered by what appears to be a matching loincloth. Roy waits, but none of the man’s attitude arises, nor does the man himself. 

Envy literally crawls himself onto the red carpeting, prostrating himself against the bottom step leading up to Edward’s throne. The man upon it no longer looks amused, however. Roy visibly shivers. This is a very different person, though the way the Vices watch Envy instead of Edward suggests this is what is normal from him. This man is cold, devoid of all traces of warmth as he stares down at what had so recently been a mangled disciple. 

Roy and Hawkeye watch as Edward’s cold eyes bleed red. Shortly after, the Ouroboros tattoo on Envy’s right thigh pulses and the man screams as though being burned. His body convulses, pain wracking his frame, but other than a sharp bowing of his back, he doesn’t move from his place, and never once lifts his forehead from the carpet. 

It takes several long minutes for the cavern to fall silent, though the red doesn’t leave Edward’s eyes. Roy spares a glance at the rest, the Vices all standing stoic, as though attempting to speak out for their brother would land them the same fate. Alphonse appears almost uninterested, through the hand currently resting on Edward’s shoulder makes Roy wonder. That seems to be what stopped Envy’s screaming. 

“You shouldn’t have disappointed me again, Envy,” Edward says, and Roy and Hawkeye both shudder at the venomous tone, almost missing Envy’s whimper. Alphonse’s hand tightens, and Edward turns his frightening red eyes on his brother. Roy would have wet himself to have that gaze turned upon him, but apparently this sibling isn’t under the same threat that the Vices are.

“Sloth and I can take Envy to his room, Brother. Lust needs to start dinner soon. Mr. Mustang and Ms. Hawkeye haven't been shown their rooms yet, and you were in the middle of a conversation. I can handle anything else that arises once Envy is returned to his place.” 

It’s not missed by anyone that Alphonse’s tone is carefully neutral, suggesting and not ordering. If Edward is prone to such volatility, that is undeniably for the best. Edward studies Alphonse’s face for several terrifying heartbeats before sighing and rolling his eyes the same instant they return to their usual molten gold. “You haven’t let me have any real fun in ages,” he murmurs as he stands. 

Alphonse merely grins, though it doesn’t escape Roy’s notice that the comment makes Greed gulp. Edward descends the dais with Lust in tow, ignoring Envy entirely. No one else moves, though Alphonse does nod towards Edward, a subtle order, or perhaps heavy suggestion, that they follow him. Roy turns, Hawkeye a step behind, as they make the long trek back up the stone staircase leading to the house. Once Edward is out of sight of the others, movement resumes, though neither he nor his subordinate are brave enough to lag behind to watch.


	10. Realizations and Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of Roy and Riza's questions finally get answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Your patience is most appreciated. We got an unprecedented freeze that literally shut down the whole metroplex for most of last week, so I'm updated much later than I'd originally intended. Four days without power was not fun. As always, comments are welcome!

There’s silence until they reach the top, and the fireplace has swung shut behind them all. Once again, there’s a faint echo of alchemy, but no activation of a circle. Roy blinks, strangely at a loss on how to proceed. All of his political know-how seems to be fairly wasted on Edward, even without his strange mental preoccupation. 

“Aerugian, Lust. Noodles, and lots of ‘em,” Edward says suddenly. Roy has no idea what he means at first, so far out of his depth at this point that he’s considered just giving in and letting Hawkeye conduct the remainder. 

Lust bows at the words, still exuding that sultry charm that supposedly gave her her name. “Of course, Father,” she murmurs demurely before pivoting and moving out of the room without any of the saunter she had before. There’s an undercurrent of urgency to her that she doesn’t have even with Alphonse. 

Edward continues through the house, heading for a second floor. Roy hadn’t even noticed the staircase tucked against a wall. Hawkeye stays at his back, undoubtedly knowing just how off balance he is here. This is most assuredly not what he’d expected, and he's still got more questions than answers. 

Edward stops suddenly at the top, gesturing down a hallway. “This wing is yours while you’re here. Don’t stash anything you don’t want Greed pawing through. He won’t take anything, he got in trouble the last time for messing with my shit, but he’ll still look, it’s his nature. Don’t care how you settle your sleeping arrangements here, but don’t wander the basements or the Eastern Wing by yourself. Chimeras don’t know you yet. Be a shame if you get eaten so soon. You wanna ask your questions, or wait for Al, Mustang?” 

Roy blinks, mentally vacillating for several seconds before settling on a decision. He can’t really avoid the man, not anymore. The sooner he figures this one out, the better. “If you’ve the time, of course. I’d hate to presume,” he replies steadily, which is quite a victory indeed. 

Edward merely snorts. “Fuck, you sound like Al. Wondered why he made contact at that stupid party. He’ll like you s’long as you don’t do anything stupid. We can sit up here, there’s a sitting room. What do you wanna know?” He moves into the wing, and heads immediately for an armchair, draping himself sideways across it. Roy takes the one facing him, and he’d grin if he were anywhere else as Hawkeye stands against the wall.

Edward appears to pay it no mind, though he’s likely well used to having someone hovering. Alphonse appears to do so fairly regularly, though even Lust followed him, and Pride covered Alphonse at the Gala as though it were commonplace. Perhaps it is. Roy likely doesn’t know the half of it, much as it rankles to have to think so. 

He marshals his thoughts, trying to find some semblance of order before he remembers who he’s facing and deciding to just fire his thoughts off as they come and see what is produced. “What, exactly, are the Vices? No alchemy I’ve ever heard of can do what you showed us, and there was no exchange.” It’s perhaps not the most pressing of issues, but it’s one that sits more sour than others upon his brain. He’ll get to the red flashes later. 

Edward grins. “They’re Homunculi.” Riza chokes on a breath, and Roy very nearly falls out of his chair. They know the theories of course. The horror stories. Roy’s mentor, Riza’s father, made sure they both knew the myths, the dangers, the warnings. Chuckling, Edward shrugs as though his words are nothing earth shattering. “I made them. They were all human once. Al picks ‘em as we need ‘em, this ain’t the first batch. It’s proven easier to do them in full sets, though, so I had to make all seven despite only needing Wrath and Pride and Lust at the time.” He pauses, though it’s only to let the old man with the eyepatch, Wrath, enter with a domed tray balanced on each hand. They are set down, the domes removed, and the man himself departs with a swiftness that confuses Roy considering the man’s apparent age. He waits until Edward has helped himself to the carafe that accompanies the teapot Roy had expected, the smell of coffee soon filling the room. The food is left untouched for now. 

Roy makes himself a cup of tea, Riza refusing everything. If something in this spread incapacitates Roy, she’ll still have her faculties about her. “Made…..what are you?” she asks with her usual no-nonsense approach, and Edward merely grins. 

“That’s a bit of a story,” he says, waving her off as she inhales to fire back at him so he can continue. “My old man was actually a slave from Xerxes. Yeah, it was almost 500 years ago now. He learned to read, which was a big deal for that lot, and worked his way up to being a scholar. Got himself into the palace and everything. He realized his alchemy teacher - they called it Arcana, not alchemy, though - had used his blood some years back to make a little sentient shadow in a flask. That was the first Homunculus. The king asked this thing, the old man called it the Dwarf in the Flask, which is probably about what the Xerxian word for Homunculus really means, for immortality. It told him, but skewed the data just enough to alter where the center of the circle was. My old man figured the math out just in time, and tossed the Dwarf in the Flask out of the center. It was consumed with the rest of the city. Huge nationwide transmutation circle, turned every last soul in Xerxes into a Philosopher’s Stone inside the last survivor.” 

Edward pauses to drink his coffee, and Roy sits stunned, his own tea all but forgotten now. This is far and beyond anything they could have dreamed possible. He glances at Hawkeye, who bears a similar look, though he’s comforted by the calculating turn of gears in her eyes. She’s still functioning, thank goodness. He’s just about ready to check out of the entire conversation. 

“Anyway,” Edward continues, as though he hasn’t just ripped the entirety of Roy’s understanding out of its foundations, “He met our mom a couple centuries later and married her. Apparently he was still viable, Al n’ I are a year apart. He fucked off when Al was three. Mom got sick right after we started school, died when I was I think eight. We’d already started pouring over all of the old man’s old alchemy stuff, teaching ourselves everything we could. We’d planned on trying to bring Mom back, believed we had the means with the Xerxian shit. Of course the fucker comes back in just enough time to stop us. Took us out into the desert for a few years, taught us properly then. Somehow he’d kept most of the Xerxian literature in a massive underground library, said that’s why he left. Had to get to it before anyone else found it. Bastard. Anyway…..over those years tucked beneath the ruins, he and I fought. A lot. He didn’t tell us what he was until Al was of age, needed to keep us from leaving him and risk letting slip where we’d been. We got into it over what was basically imprisonment, of course, but one of his shots went wide and almost dropped a stone pillar on Al. Pissed me off. Wasn’t trying to hurt him after that, I wanted the fucker dead from that point on. Not even the shit who sired us hurts Al and gets away with it. Somehow, I landed a blow, sunk my hand into his chest. We shared blood, so that woke something in me, and I siphoned his Stone out of him. All million and some souls from Xerxes. Gave Al about a third of them, he insisted on staying with me across time. I use some of the rest to make the Homunculi when I need them. Their tattoos are slivers of my blood, my Stone.” 

Hawkeye is no longer standing at parade rest, having relaxed out of the position in shock as Edward spoke. Roy has just enough left of his mind to set his cup down before he drops it onto the carpet, leaning forward to stare unashamedly at Edward. “You said…..you needed three of them. The - they can’t really be, can they? Why-?”

“Because they are Brother’s own vices given form,” Alphonse’s voice answers softly. “That is why they are so named.” Both Roy and Hawkeye jump, Roy taking his feet and backing against the wall next to Hawkeye. They’re staring at the younger brother now, far beyond capable of maintaining their composure. 

“Brother carries far more of our father’s Xerxian heritage than I do. He bears the Royal’s Curse. As it turns out, or father was an illegitimate child of the king, sold into slavery. The royal line of Xerxes is cursed, had been for centuries before its downfall.” He steps into the room as he speaks, setting a pair of books down on a table as he moves to stand beside Edward once more. His hand rests on the white and purple robed shoulder, and with that contact Edward seems to relax. “These are translated from our father’s language. The summary being that those who are cursed, those the blood deems fit to inherit the throne, don’t possess man’s natural balances. You can temper your anger, your sadness, your joy. You can regulate yourself. Brother, like our father before him, does not possess that capability. The Vices are actually exactly that: those things, emotions, feelings that nearly destroyed him in our youth. I collect people who are the most likely to withstand the Stone, and he pours his excesses into them. I take the rest from him as needed.” 

Edward’s hand lifts, settling atop Alphonse’s upon his shoulder. Roy has no idea what the rest entails, and he’s almost afraid to ask. He doesn’t move from his spot next to Riza, doesn’t know how to relax. If he’s got his math right, these two passed boyhood centuries ago. 

“You….are you really three centuries old?” he manages to ask, and Edward grins. Alphonse is the one who nods. Roy would very much like to fall through a hole in the floor. This isn’t possible. Is it? 

Alphonse’s attention turns to Edward, and he softens considerably. “Brother, dinner’s nearly ready. Shall we leave Mr. Mustang and Ms. Hawkeye to freshen up? We have that visit to make tonight, let’s get you changed. Those robes stand out these days, no matter how much you enjoy imagining Dad’s face every time you wear them.” 

Edward looks like he’d prefer to argue, but with a sigh, he lifts himself from the chair. The coffee cup is abandoned on the floor next to the chair, and Edward waves idly as he leaves. Alphonse follows, pausing in the doorway and casting a baleful glance at the abandoned cup. “We’ll be taking Wrath with us, but Pride will be here should you need anything. Lust does most of the cooking, and they don’t require sleep the same way you do, so she’s available at any time. You won’t see Envy, he’s still grounded. Sloth and Gluttony tend to remain in the basement. Greed is...well, avaricious, and it makes him curious. If he tests your boundaries beyond what you’re comfortable with, let Lust know. Call for Pride if he truly oversteps. They know how to contain him.” 

With that bizarre series of instructions, Alphonse turns, following Edward, who is halfway down the staircase now, by the look of it. The door clicks closed, and Roy and Riza retreat to one of the bedrooms to catch their breath.


End file.
